Amos - "I am sure, sir, that playing with your own piece is a continuous source of delight to you."

You are going too far when you say that, sir! I have not spoken a word on this forum about your own vile solitary habits, because I am a person with some sense of restraint and mutual respect...unlike yourself! I am now compelled, however, to respond in kind. It is my opinion that if you persist in "spanking the monkey" any further you will not only go blind...he will start hitting back!

The reason you have not, oh Confabulator, is that my vile solitary habits are entirely unknown to you; habits such as contemplating the greatest good, dreaming up random acts of kindness, composing lyrical pieces, dream of a Better World, designing deathless literature, and so on.

For some time NSA satellites have been able to record video sequences through interfering media such as leaves and roofs and thus there is an extensive "library" of the solitary vices you both indulge in. Being a simple country librarian, I wouldn't know how to break into this database, nope, but I have somehow been made privy to some of the materials therein and must pass these messages along:

Amos, "flogging your dolphin" is not something to be taken literally and I'm surprised that the ASPCA or a similar organization hasn't yet interfered. LH, the long, lush growth of green hair on your palms did not come from a bad lot of Rogaine.

There's places where they say its cold At 45 degrees And places where it gets so cold It makes you lock your knees. There's regions where the cusswords hang All frozen through the winter And come to life at the start of Spring Making raucous roars a-splinter. There are lands where the sun never shows its face Throughout the winter's day And places where the white bears live Where it's too damn cold to pray. But the coldest stretch I ever saw And the toughest winter's way Was the trek where Ma nearly broke her neck Making Thirty Four of Kay.

It was warm enough when we started out Down in Thirtythree and Six. And when Mom said she'd had a thought, We thought we knew her tricks. So we lazed around by the fire bright In a warm and friendly snow, And Mom explained what she had in mind, And where she planned to go. Wal, the dogs were stretched in their snow-hole beds Dreaming of canine beers, But when she spoke each raised his head, And flattened out his ears. And they all shivered, as if a chill Or a williwaw, as they say, Had come sweeping down from the northern peaks Out by Thirty Four of Kay.

Now Ma, she knew them dogs clear through Each blooded breed and line And in those parts, the people said She had half a canine mind. So she knew what she would have to do To break them from their beds, And she uttered a cry like wolves in heat And her whipped snapped over their heads. So one by one the dogs stood up And snarled with an awful sneer But Ma she stood and stared them down, And pretended not to hear. And one by one those hell-hounds flinched ANd into their traces lay, They could tell that Ma would brook no stop Til the Thirty Four o' Kay.

The boss-dog there was B.S. Buck, Her was long in tooth and fur. There wasn't a bitch the length of the line But Buck and conquered her. And there wasn't a dog in the whole damn team As they snarled right whar they stood That didn't remember some frozen night When Buck had drawn his blood. And Buck was the last to creep to the trace And he stared in an evil way; You could his heart warn't inclined to start On the trail to another Kay.

Youse flipheads make me SAD! Here yer lifes are goin' by and alls you can think to do with yer time is right a hole lotta stoopid poems and stuff on this here thred. Whatta buncha LOOSERS! It's pa-flippin'-thetick is what it is. Youse all otta get a flippin' life, eh?

Rapaire - I thought you was dead and berryed by now. But you are not I gess. Too flippin' bad! I allready got drunk celebratin' yer flippin' deemyse and even gave out some free dope to my pals. You OWE me.

And none of us was much inclined To jump in for her plan, For Ma she drove a hard, hard trail As tough as any man. She'd eat the man for brekfuss As stopped her in her way So it didn't sound like a heap of fun To mush to the next of Kay. And we knew that road was awful hard, Unmarked in the frozen hills And we'd all heard tell of those who'd tried And died from ice, or spills Or died from the heart-stopping Northers there That rip yer lungs away, So there wasn't much incitement To suit up fer the next o' Kay.

Sitting in the waiting room of the guitar studio, listening to the learning phases of a Bach piece. Mmmmmm! It's so lovely, I want to enjoy a mellow evening, not break the mood cooking. Do you think MOM would prefer pizza or BarBQue for dinner tonight?

I'm so sorry to disappoint you. Truly, I am. I assure you that when YOU die I shall toast your memory with the best whisky I can get, and then I shall pour it onto your grave. Of course, I'll run it through my kidneys first.

Shame, did I mention my new pistol? It's a Sig Sauer .40 calibre, holding 15 rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Of course, I don't use jacketed ammunition, so the hole is about four-tenths of an inch going in and about an inch or more across going out. Terrific tissue damage, as you would expect. I used it to win the Stafford Cup from the New Northwest Practical Pistol Shooting Association -- 30 rounds at ranges from 5 to 150 meters, and I scored a "possible", hitting dead in the centre of the "kill zone" on every target. I also did the knifework and unarmed combat portions of the competition and tied for first in both. Not bad for an old geezer, eh?

Amos, you missed the special treat good ol' Jack had for Jules. You really should do more thorough research.

Months later, Slade was returning from the Pacific Springs Station when he received word that Jules Beni was in the area. Some of Slade's employees captured Jules and took him to the Rocky Ridge Station, binding him to a post in the station's cattle-yard. There, Slade would periodically, through the night, stick his head out the door and take pot shots at Jules, nicking him. In the morning Slade finally dispatched Jules, cutting off his ears and turning one in to a watch fob and the other into an 1860's version of a worry stone. Jules, himself, may not have been so innocent [he had shot Slade six times with a revolver and emptied a sawed-off shotgun full of buckshot into him]. Most sources say that Slade used Beni as a target for at least two days before administering the coup de grace.

When I was a young'un, we made chocolate milk using nonfat dry milk. It sucked when freshly mixed, but it you let it sit in the fridge overnight it tasted identical to Yoohoo chocolate drink, which is pretty much just a melted Fudgesicle. It was cool 'cause Mom (my mom, not ourMom) wouldn't buy Yoohoo. If we wanted it, we had to use our allowance money. But we could mix up a pitcherful of homebrew for free and save our allowance money for candy and other drugs.

I think Mom would like some to wash down her Creamsicles, but I'm not going to make it for her. Somebody give her a buck so she can buy a Yoohoo.

Drop around, good Shame, and I'll explain it all to you quite thoroughly. Julie is one hot babe who has the hots for you for some reason. Jack Slade is a local bartender who has heard of you and wants to see if you can drink as much free beer (your choice) as you say you can.

Then old Rapaire he heard a voice 'Most clear as any bell. "There's fudgicles and Drumsticks, son, To be found in them thar hills." Now, where thet voice had come from, Rapaire jest did not know. But he was partial to them Drumstick thangs, So he told Ma he would go.

Then Little Hawk he lumbered up, Fixing to join the fun. It warn't because he wanted to, But jest not to be out done. And BWL strapped on his shoes Made for crossing niege glacée, Said he was bored with waiting 'round And he'd go for the next of Kay.

So Janie and Stilly limbered up And lined up in the yard In a little old New England sleigh Pulled by a Saint Bernard. They knew those boys were trouble-bound And always full of sin And in case they had to be found, They agreed to chip on in.

On the other hand if you leave here to go there, you may find that when you get to where you thought would be there, you aren't there at all, but you had been there all along, back when you were here, and now you need to go back to here to be there once again.

Speaking of minimalism, could some one post the Readers Digest version of what has been happening here at Mom's place the last couple of weeks?

I ain't got the time or concentration to catch up.

And some sibs you lot are! Nary an anguished and anxious word about my absence. Why, I coulda been kidnapped by a Yeti, run off the road over an imbankment, trapped in my car with two broken noses and nothing to drink but the case of cheap, aussie shiraz that was belted in on the passenger seat (Thank God for screwcaps!) - I mean, that is what I would have said if I had been in that predicament. I coulda chased Gluon down a wormhole only to land on the set of Stargate Atlantis, where I was mistaken for one of the symbols on the gate that fell off, and stuck back on with superglue! I could a had a brainfart, moved to Massachusetts and voted Republican, for chrissake!

It was a nice wake, Janie. We all brought our surfboards and went wake-surfing. Gluon drove the boat. Strange how that little duckdog can navigate a nineteen-dimensional universe, go backward and forward in time at will, and juggle 300,000 Higgs bosons without dropping a single one, but he/she/it can't stand up on a surfboard to save his/her/its life.

When we are bored by excellence When we are too envious We cut the exhalted down to size We even tingle with enjoyment if our victim cries. Ohhh it feels so good you can't imagine. From rags to riches to rage is our fashion.

For example todays newspaper page shows Tiger Woods in a hood sporting a beard with the grimice of a cynic. Roaming the grounds of a sexual addiction clinic.

sip GULP mmmm

AAhh what could be better than Tiger Woods tea. You see... Now we can gloat, vicariously We Are Now Better Than He.

There's a yeller rose of Idaho That I'm agonna see No other feller loves In quite the ways as me She laughed so when I left her It pirt near ta broke my heart I promised to return agin And never more ta fart [sic].

CH: She's the cutest little spud queen Thet Idaho ever knew Her eyes are bright like rhinestones They sparkle like the dew You kin talk about your Clemmie And sing of Lorny Lee But the yeller rose of Idaho Is the onlyest gal fer me.

Where the Snake and Salmon are flowin' In the muskeeter-filled summer nights She walks along ol' Main Street Drummin' up trade every night I know thet she remembers When we parted long ago I promised to get my clap cured And never more ta go.

Weird times in the Surreal Corral. Last night the rains came down in sheets, something our sunny little village is not used to even though it happens once a year. This morning it was still raining. I was safely ensconced in the local library's meeting room running a training session on knot-tying for the edification of thelocal Civilian Emergency Response team members. Meanwhile, at the company, the lower floor where the manufacturing area sits was being flooded by the waters breaking through a collapsed six-inch drain pipe about four feet below the floor. The pressure of the combined waters was so great that when blocked by the bad drain pipe they backed up clear into the building. Several inches started building up on th emanufacturing floor in minutes, with no sign of stopping. A dozen people were bringing in huge pumps, manning buckets, and scrambling all through the night to move the water away, open up the floor, empty the pit, etc., etc. WHen I came in at 5:45 this morning it was down to wet-vacuums and brooms, and a long-term plan to open the floor and completely removbe and replace thirty feet of drain pipe. Exhausted sleep deprived volunteers were wandering around cleaning up and looking dazedly heroic as folks do whohave fought the storm through the night.

For me it was a normal morning, but a whale of a lot of action had gone on while I was out!

Well, that's another good reason not to live in SoCal. Eventually you'll wash away.

Boy, have I started a tempest by posting "The Yeller Rose Of Idaho"!! Seems like there's an earlier version, dating back to the 1840s, and "Soddy" House just ripped it off and changed a very few of the words. Here's the earlier version:

There's a spud bud out in Idyho That I'm tryin' not to see No other feller loved In quite the ways as me She threw a fit when I left her It like ta broke my heart My liver, spleen, and kidneys And prit near every part.

CH: She's the cutest little spud bud Thet Idyho ever knew Her eyes jist like rubies All red and bloodshot through You kin talk about your Clemmie And sing of Lucy Lee But the tater bud of Idyho Is tryin' ta find me.

Where the Portneuf River's flowin' In the muskeeter-filled summer nights She walks along the river Jist a-cryin' 'neath the moon I know her daddy's lookin' Since we parted long ago He's got a big ol' shotgun And the baby's comin' soon.